For a long stretch between the late sixties and the mid-seventies, The Who set the standard by which all live rock bands were judged. Better than the Stones, better than Zeppelin, better than whichever group you are currently preparing to nominate in protest. The excitement, the power, the chaos and the sheer musicality of a classic Who performance remain almost unmatched in rock history. Much of that came from the extraordinary chemistry between Keith Moon and John Entwistle, whose manic drumming and virtuosic bass playing transformed the rhythm section into a lead instrument of its own.
In 2023, however, that rhythm section is long gone and The Who is a very different proposition. Roger Daltrey, now approaching his eightieth birthday, can no longer rely on exactly the same range he possessed in 1971, but his voice remains remarkably expressive. The register sits a little lower, the timbre is rougher, and the occasional crack only adds emotional weight to songs that have accompanied several generations through adolescence and beyond. Beside him stands Pete Townshend, songwriter, guitarist and guardian of the temple. If anything, age has encouraged him to step further into the spotlight as a guitarist. During the band's classic years, the sheer force of Moon and Entwistle often left little room for anyone else. Today, his playing occupies more space and serves as a reminder of just how distinctive a guitarist he has always been.
Different inevitably raises an uncomfortable question. At what point does a band cease to be itself? How many members can be replaced before the name becomes little more than a trademark? In the case of The Who, the answer feels surprisingly straightforward. As long as Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend are standing on a stage performing these songs, the essence of the band remains intact. The personnel may change, arrangements may evolve and time may alter the voices and faces, but these songs deserve to be heard, and no one is better equipped to present them than the men who created them. Questions of authenticity tend to dissolve when Daltrey opens his mouth or Townshend attacks a windmill chord.
For this tour, they are accompanied by their regular touring musicians, including the excellent Zak Starkey on drums, as well as a local symphony orchestra. Hearing this repertoire augmented by a full classical ensemble adds both scale and emotional weight without sacrificing the music's essential power. The orchestra never feels like a gimmick. Instead, it illuminates details already present in the compositions.
The evening begins with excerpts from Tommy and the effect is immediate. The orchestral arrangements lend additional grandeur to a work that hardly lacked ambition to begin with, yet the songs never lose their rock and roll bite. Daltrey's voice still carries traces of the British rhythm and blues singer he once was, while Townshend's guitar remains capable of cutting through even the densest arrangements. Their rendition of "Acid Queen" inevitably evokes Tina Turner, whose towering interpretation remains inseparable from the song and whose passing only weeks earlier hung over the performance.
After a handful of standalone classics, the orchestra temporarily leaves the stage and the band shifts into a more traditional rock format. This is The Who stripped to their essentials: guitar, drums, bass, voice and an inexhaustible catalogue of songs. "Substitute," "The Kids Are Alright" and other early favourites remind the audience that before the concept albums, before the stadium tours and before the symphonic ambitions, this was one of the most explosive rock bands ever assembled. A delicate rendition of "Behind Blue Eyes," accompanied by violin and cello, closes this section before the orchestra returns.
As Townshend himself notes, the Quadrophenia portion of the evening is where the symphonic concept truly comes into its own. It is difficult to disagree: the album was always constructed with an almost classical sensibility, its recurring musical themes weaving in and out of the narrative like characters in an opera. The additional instrumentation amplifies those qualities without overwhelming them. "Love Reign O'er Me" is particularly magnificent, providing Daltrey with an opportunity to demonstrate just how much power remains in his voice.
Eventually the unmistakable Lowrey organ introduction of "Baba O'Riley" reverberates through the arena, signalling that the evening is drawing to a close. Hearing the famous violin part performed as it was on the original recording, rather than replaced by harmonica, is a welcome touch. After the orchestra and band depart, only Daltrey and Townshend remain on stage for a moving rendition of "Tea & Theatre" from Endless Wire. Performed by two men who have spent more than half a century navigating triumph, tragedy, rivalry and reconciliation, the song acquires a resonance impossible to manufacture.
The evening's final curtain call carries an undeniable sense of finality. Then again, The Who have spent more than half a century defying finality. They survived the sixties, the seventies, the deaths of Keith Moon and John Entwistle, internal feuds, farewell tours and every prediction of their demise. At some point, survival itself becomes part of the band's identity. There were a few omissions from the setlist, "My Generation," "I Can't Explain" and "I Can See for Miles" among them, and some longer pieces appeared in abbreviated form. Townshend's guitar was also oddly low in the mix for portions of the evening. Minor complaints. What remains is the privilege of hearing one of rock's greatest catalogues performed by the people most responsible for creating it. For two hours and fifteen minutes in a vast arena on the outskirts of Paris, the past and present coexisted quite comfortably.
